


Five Times Gabe Didn't Fuck Brendon and One Time He Took Him Out For Coffee

by EdgarAllenPoet



Category: Cobra Starship, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 17 year old Brendon, 2005, 5 Times, But not quite, Ethical Dilemmas, Gabe is a sweetheart, Good guy Gabe Saporta, M/M, Vicky T is a goddess, almost underage a bunch of times, drunk teenagers, no real smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7074802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were three texts from Pete waiting for him:</p><p>hrd u met urie;)<br/>dnt ruin my vrgns<br/>chck ur email ;) ;) ;)</p><p>Gabe growled and punched the off button on his phone before tossing it onto the floor and going back to sleep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Gabe Didn't Fuck Brendon and One Time He Took Him Out For Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> because I'm really into pairing Brendon with random dudes these days, and I'm not sorry at all.

 1.  **The Club**

 

 

The thing about Pete was he had been kind of a wild kid.  Wild kids, especially with the rock n roll lifestyle, turn into wild adults.  Adults who maybe don’t make the best life choices.  Now don’t get him wrong here, Gabe loved Pete like a brother- a tiny older brother who was good for an occasional Guitar Hero tournament, party, blowjob, or nervous breakdown depending on what they needed that night- and even though he was the most successful out of any of them, sometimes Pete just didn’t fucking think.

 

Buying the club was the greatest idea they’d all had.  Gabe wasn’t in New York as often as he’d like to be, and it was rare that he and Pete were ever there at the same time.  Tonight was a lucky night.  Gabe and all of Cobra were in town, and Pete was in the mood to celebrate.

 

They’d flown in to meet with some great young talent Pete was nutting over lately.  His newest project.  Gabe couldn’t remember the band name for the life of him, but Pete talked about Cobra opening for them when they headlined on their next tour.  Pete had big dreams for these little kids, big dreams for Cobra too as far as Gabe was concerned. Midtown had only been moderately successful, and Cobra hadn’t even gotten their first album out there yet. They were still looking for a final member, even.  

 

The rest of the band had met up with Pete and his tiny miracles that morning, but Gabe had tapped out and spent the day wandering the city.  He needed that kind of cleanse.  His head needed a break.  

That all didn’t matter now.  Now all that mattered was the drink sloshing around in his stomach and Jimi Hendrix looking down at him from his spot on the wall, looking more relaxed in his mugshot than Gabe ever did, like, ever.  Thank God Pete was in the mood to party, because while they all loved acoustic and had a great appreciation for it as musicians, Gabe needed some catharsis, and it was hard to thrash and sweat to Angels & Kings’s usual digs.  Gwen Stefani, on the other hand….  Hollaback Girl was a great song, and Gabe would love to cover it one day.

He may have been a little bit drunk.  Not enough though.  He was pleasantly dizzy but hadn’t reached the fine line that lead to dancing on tables or sex in a bathroom stall.  That’s the kind of night Gabe was looking for… and he might have just found it.  It was too dark to see properly in the club, but Gabe could recognize the dick grinding against his thigh to be male.  That was exactly what he needed.  Guys went harder than girls did-- that was just a matter of fact, despite what Vicky had to say about it.  The guy was short, but that was fine.  A dick was a dick and, oh.  Gabe’s arms snaked around the stranger, and that was an amazing ass.

 

Songs slurred together and he wasn’t sure how many had passed before his least favorite song ever came on, but his dance partner hadn’t left yet, so maybe that made up for it.  This song had come out the year prior and was an instant hit being played in every club and high school dance across the country.  Fucking Usher.  The song had driven Gabe crazy.

 

Every time he heard it, he was too in the zone to remember anything besides the chorus, which was an unhelpful repetition of ‘yeah!’  He’d spent hours searching for the motherfucker on Google, but it wasn’t like he stood a chance when he only remembered one word.  

 

He’d worry about that later though.  The song was damn catchy, and the drinks he’d downed coupled with his new dance partner were making it hard to care about anything else.

 

The guy was short, so it was a little difficult to manage when his sweaty hand settled on the back of Gabe’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss that was more biting than pleasant, but wasn’t exactly a turn off.  This couldn’t be considered dancing anymore, not even remotely.  At least this guy and Gabe had the same thing in mind here.  Fuck dancing.  Gabe was in it for the hard stuff.  The hard stuff that was grinding against his thigh.  Gabe couldn’t believe he’d gotten so lucky.  He bent down to make the kissing easier and hauled the guy in by his belt loops.  

 

Music was still pounding in the background- that same stupid song.  The kissing was unpracticed and sloppy, and Gabe was overheating in the crowd.  His stomach was a bit unsettled from the shots he’d done earlier, but fuck.  Despite all of that, this was still pretty fucking awesome.

 

The song reached what Gabe assumed was the bridge.  It was one of the parts he recognized and knew the words to if he was actually listening to the song.   _“Take that and rewind it back…”_

 

The guy’s nails dug into Gabe’s neck and scratched down.  Gabe held him close with two hands cupping under the curve of the guy’s ass, partly because his ass was kind of _amazing_ and partly to keep up some illusion of dancing. He squeezed and felt a low moan vibrate against his mouth. Well, by all means then.

 

 _“Lil Jon’s got the beat to make your booty go-”_ He swung his hand back and snapped it forward.  Some guys were into that, and if this one wasn’t Gabe would just apologize.  He hoped for the best though, and what he got was a moan, much higher pitched that he expected.

 

Wait, what?   _So the guy has a girly voice, so what?_ His brain supplied unhelpfully after he’d already faltered and pulled back, giving himself a chance to actually look at the guy.  It was hard to see in the club, but a green light spun over them and illuminated them both for just a second, and _fuck_.  Gabe recognized that stupid fucking bowlcut from the pictures Pete had emailed them.

 

This could go very badly, potentially.  This kid, who was one-fourth of Panic! at the Disco (Gabe was just about certain, he just wasn’t sure which fourth it was…) could decide that they didn’t want Cobra touring with them after all.  This kid could also be a literal kid, and then Gabe would go to jail for fucking statutory.  He wasn’t sure how old the kid was, but he was young enough to still have that awful haircut, so that said something.

 

Well, fuck.

 

Gabe grabbed a too-thin bicep and tugged him off the dance floor to the edge of the club where there was a hallway to the bathrooms.  He wished that this was someone else, anyone else, so that they could keep going down that hall and really get this thing started, but no.  He had to behave like a responsible adult, so he backed the kid up against the wall.

 

The kid followed along easily, tripping clumsily over his own feet in a way that made Gabe feel sick to his stomach.  His giant eyes, sparkling in the lights of the club with pupils blown too big were looking at him with both excitement and terror.  Gabe knew what a virgin looked like.  God damn it.  

 

“How old are you?” Gabe asked.  Pete had said they were young, but when it was Pete you really had to ask for specifics.  ‘Young’ could mean jail bait just as easily as young could mean Billie Joe Armstrong, because God forbid anyone call the forty-something punk legend _old_.  

 

“Twenty-one.”  The haircut, the zit on his cheek, and the shine in his eyes was telling a different story, and he lifted his chin in a challenge.  What a brat.  Gabe knew what a brat looked like too.  He was one himself.  The difference was he was a brat who was old enough to actually be in this club.  

 

Gabe gave him a stern look, and as if serving as a testament to his youth, the boy shifted uncomfortably and bit his bottom lip.  “Okay,” he said.  “I’m seventeen.  But I’m mature for my age!”

 

Yeah, that’s what all kids said when they were trying to be cool.  Gabe had said that when he was young.  Seventeen.  Fuck.  Gabe had totally felt this kid up.  He didn’t even know the age of consent here.  That could have been statutory.  

 

“Are you okay?” he asked.  “You look kind of sick.”

 

Gabe felt kind of sick, but he didn’t answer to children.  

 

“How did you even get in here?” he asked instead.

 

“Pete,” the kid answered, and yeah, of course this was all Pete’s fault.  Of course it was.  

 

“Hey, come on.  Age is just a number, right?”  The boy’s hands were a warm presence sliding over his hips, and Gabe felt a flash of panic.  He smacked them away, and noise like ‘gnuh!’ escaping his throat as he stepped back.  

 

“You are going to get somebody arrested!” he protested, but instead of the words having their intended effect, the kid smirked up at him.  

 

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said with too much arrogance for his own good.  He was going to get himself arrested, being in a club when he wasn’t even eighteen years old.  Gabe rubbed his hand over his face and tried to think of what to do.

 

“Is the rest of your band here?” he asked, and the kid nodded and pointed across the room to a far off group of shadows.  Gabe nodded briefly, grabbed his arm again, and dragged him off in that direction, ignoring the annoyed protests that followed him the entire way there.  He marched them over to the only other people in the club that looked as young as this kid did, and they were obviously the right group from the way their faces lit up when Gabe came over.  

 

“Dude! Zack was just looking for you!” one of them shouted over the music.  The light was better over here; Gabe could actually see things.  Could actually see that these were literal teenagers.  Babies.  Oh my God.  Gabe nudged the kid off towards his friends and turned on heel, intent on heading to a dark corner to lurk for a while until something else exciting happened or his band finally tracked him down and dragged him back to the hotel.  He purposefully didn’t watch which door they left out of, instead focusing on the DJ at the front and the way their awful scene hair kept flopping in and out of their eyes and flicking sweat onto the crowd.

 

The next morning, Gabe woke up to his phone buzzing and Nate drooling on his shoulder.  He pushed his bandmate away and flailed at his phone, because if he let it go too long Ryland would certainly unleash some kind of wrath upon him from the twin bed only a few feet away, and it was too God damn early to defend himself.  He eventually got his hand around the buzzing irritant and squinted at the tiny screen.  There were three texts from Pete waiting for him:

 

**hrd u met urie;)**

**dnt ruin my vrgns**

**chck ur email ;) ;) ;)**

 

Gabe growled and punched the off button on his phone before tossing it onto the floor and going back to sleep.

  


  1. **The Hotel**



 

“We don’t drink,” was the first thing a certain skinny toddler named Ryan Ross told him when they met, which meant that he’d either heard of Gabe and Pete’s partying reputation, or he could already smell the stale beer on his breath.  

 

That Ross kid turned out to be a dirty little liar.

 

Perhaps the “we” in that sentence had been a royal we, referring to Ryan- him, himself, and I.  Gabe had seen the other three at enough parties to know they weren’t tee-totallers.  Brent (slouch and perpetual frown) had a thing for weed; Spencer (baby fat and girly facial expressions) had been caught downing more than just the occasional beer; and Brendon (as if Gabe had _any_ trouble at all remembering _him_ ) would drink just about anything, too naive to question it and too strong-willed to turn it down.  He could get pretty fucked up pretty quickly.

 

Gabe could get fucked up too; it just took longer.  Unfortunately he’d been drinking since eleven a.m.

 

They were in somebody’s hotel room, maybe their own, maybe Fall Out Boy’s, though Gabe couldn’t remember if they were even still hanging out on the tour, or maybe Panic!’s but probably not.  The Royal We (Ryan- way too skinny and sad), and the other two- tweedle dee and tweedle dum, were missing in action, leaving Gabe slightly disoriented and a little dizzy with a lap full of teenager and a room full of people not paying attention.

 

Brendon was smashed-- slurring words, stumbling around, might not remember this in the morning Smashed.  Gabe, on the other hand, was neither sober nor drunk enough to put up with this.  

 

But the rest of Panic! was missing.  They’d disappeared somewhere and left Brendon alone to his own devices, which left him hanging off of Gabe.  Great.

 

It was getting pretty loud in there- too many people crowded into too small of a hotel room.  It was only a matter of time before another guest complained and called the cops or security or someone to shut this thing down.  That wasn’t a big deal.  It happened four times a month.

 

It would be kind of a big deal if they carded everyone and Brendon ended up in jail for the night, seeing as he wasn’t anywhere near legal.  He was also one of the loudest drunk people Gabe had ever met.  That was saying something.  He himself was a loud drunk person, but this stupid little kid had him beat.  He was too far gone to even try playing it cool if the cops showed up.  

 

That, and Brendon was totally groping at the front of Gabe’s jeans.  The kid was all over him, hot hands trying to slide up Gabe’s t-shirt and breath dampening Gabe’s shoulder as he laughed obnoxiously at… something.

 

If Gabe’s mind wasn’t so fuzzy he might have had some kind of idea what was going on. He was several drinks in, and he was pretty sure Brendon had been matching him cup for cup.  Vicky had been matching him cup for cup as well, yet she wasn’t drunk in the slightest.  Gabe was partially sure that she had some sort of superpower-- a superpower where she always looked flawless and could stay composed after half a bottle of Kahlua.  

 

Gabe could barely stay composed even when he was sober.

 

Brendon wasn’t doing any better, though, so Gabe supposed it was okay.  He kind of wanted to go sit down.  His head felt all cloudy and tired, but Brendon was yanking at his arm and shouting, “Gabriel!  Gaaaay-briel! Come dance with me!”

 

Someone’s phone was spurting music from the nightstand and every time a Beyonce song came on Brendon started shaking his ass, which, okay.  As if Gabe weren’t already tempted.  As if he hadn’t been thinking about it since that first night in the club, how Brendon had been so small and warm and fucking _ready_ in Gabe’s hands.

 

No, fuck.  He wasn’t thinking about it, especially not when Brendon came back and pasted himself to Gabe’s side.  

 

Gabe pushed off the wall that he was holding up to go search for water, because he had plans to keep drinking, and he really didn’t want a hangover tomorrow.  Brendon stumbled after him and swayed on his feet.  He would have crumpled to the ground if Gabe hadn’t caught him with an arm around the waist.  

 

“Why isn’t Spencer here?” Brendon said, and his voice came out slurred and whiny.  “He’s mad at me…”

 

“Why is Spencer mad at you?” Talking to Brendon made Gabe feel increasingly more sober, but perhaps one of them had to be.  He needed to get this kid to bed.

 

“I don’t feel good,” Brendon complained.  Fuck.  Gabe could get himself some water later.  For now he had to get Brendon out of there because Alex was a few minutes from wasted and was trying to push shots into their hands.  Brendon grabbed for one, so Gabe wrapped his fingers around both of the kid’s wrists and pulled him out of the hotel room.

 

They were being fucking loud.  The cops were going to get called if they kept the volume up as high as it currently was, and the label would be pissed if they had to bail an underage band member out of jail this early into tour.

 

“I don’t _wanna_ go to bed!” Brendon shouted at him as Gabe continued to drag him away.

 

“We’re just going on a walk,” Gabe lied calmly.  “I need your room key though.  Do you have your room key?”

 

“Maaaaybe,” Brendon sang, and then burst out laughing.  “It’s not in my pocket.”

 

It was in his pocket.  Brendon of course was wearing these ridiculously tight pants (Gabe could respect that, honestly) that were impossible to get his hands into.  Brendon ended up stumbling back and leaning against the hall, and he chose the moment when Gabe’s hand was shoved pretty far into his pocket to slur, “Oh, Gabriel.  Mama didn’t raise that kinda boy,” and burst out laughing again.

 

“For Christ’s sake,” Gabe complained again, as if anyone were listening. As if anyone besides himself and his half-hard dick were paying any attention.  

 

The elevator was out of service, and Gabe ended up practically carrying Brendon up the stupid stairs to the third floor.  He ignored Brendon’s hands grabbing at the front of his pants until they made it to the top.

 

Brendon just about fell on his face, and Gabe was not about to take this little shit to the emergency room with a busted head.  He leaned down and tossed Brendon over his shoulder, making him giggle and kick his legs around.  Gabe had to use a good amount of skill to keep from getting a bloody nose.

 

He went to the room number written on the key card and knocked on the door instead of unlocking it.  There was probably another fourth of Panic! in the room, and Gabe didn’t want to burst in on whatever they might be doing in there.  

 

There was an irritated groan from inside which made sense.  It had to be around two in the morning.  It wasn’t long before the door was wrenched open and Gabe was met with another skinny teenager, wearing a scowl and pajama pants.  

 

It was the slouchy one, their bass player.  He said, “Oh.  I wondered where he went off to.”  Gabe patiently put up with Brendon groping at his ass while he carried the idiot into the room and dropped him down on the bed.  

 

Brendon squealed, “Weee!” and then burst into giggles, yelling, “Brent! Brennnnnt! Come heeeere!” He tried to sit up again, so Gabe planted two fingers in the middle of his forehead and pushed him back down.  

 

“He’s yours now,” Gabe said as he made his way out the door.  

 

Brent grumbled, “Gee thanks,” and slammed the door behind him.  Yeah, whatever.  Gabe was going to go jerk off in his hotel room and then get properly shit faced.  He figured he deserved it.

  


  1. **In The Closet**



 

Brendon, to his credit, was a pretty coordinated kisser when he was sober.  Not as messy but not any less handsy.  Gabe, on the other hand, was a total fucking idiot.

 

They were at the venue, and Brendon tracked him down and told him he’d found the _coolest thing_ that Gabe just had to come see.  Gabe followed him patiently.  They’d all pretty much gotten used to Panic! at this point. They were overwhelmingly grateful to them for giving Cobra a chance to open (it was Pete’s idea, sure, but Panic! could have said ‘no’), and the kids were pretty fun to hang out with most of the time.  They were just teenagers.  They were totally cool.

 

Ever since the hotel party incident Brendon had apparently decided that Gabe was his new best friend.  It was a bit of a struggle, partly because Gabe’s band thought it was _hilarious_ and liked to bring it up anytime the starry eyed prodigy was out of the room, and partly because being around Brendon meant a lot of really, really horrible flirting.

 

Gabe liked to think he was smoother than that at seventeen, but Nate told him he wasn’t.  It figured.  

 

Brendon liked to flirt all of the time though, really loudly and really badly, and Gabe was trying to be the adult in this situation and tell both of them _no_ , they could _not_ do this.  It wasn’t working, though.  Brendon carried on with the heart of a lion, always taking the chance to grab for Gabe’s hand or pick lint off his shirt or throw himself into Gabe’s lap.

 

This last one had been dastardly creative, though.  Gabe had to give him some credit.  

 

He’d dragged Gabe away from his band and the safety of his dressing room to go see this _super cool_ thing, but when they got to their destination, all Gabe found was an empty storage closet.  He didn’t realize what it was until he stepped inside and turned the light on, but by then it was too late.  Brendon immediately pressed him back against the wall of the closet and attacked Gabe’s lips with his own.

 

Gabe, being caught off guard and only _human_ thank you very much, went with his gut reaction of kissing back.  He probably let it go on for longer than normal, but he’d been thinking about doing this again ever since the club.  Usually when he thought about it, his stomach turned a unpleasant flavor of sour and his brain sternly reminded him that Brendon wasn’t even of age yet, and what did he think he was doing anyways???

 

His conscious sounded incredibly like his father, who knew absolutely none of this and hopefully wouldn’t ever find out.

 

There wasn’t anything to find out, at least… there hadn’t been, but now they were making out in a closet.  Gabe finally came to his senses and pushed Brendon away gently with his hands on his shoulders.  The kid, who’d been up on tiptoes, rocked back onto his heels, and Gabe straightened to his full height from where he’d been slouched against the wall.  It gave him the upper hand.  Now, even if Brendon got any bright ideas, he wouldn’t be able to reach anyways.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

 

The kid’s smile faded right off his face.  “Um… kissing…?”

 

“Not anymore.”

 

“Awww come on,” Brendon whined, honest to God _whined_ , and Gabe squeezed the bridge of his nose between two fingers.  “Nobody can see us in here!  Why not?”

 

“We can’t,” he said shortly, words failing him.

 

“Am I a bad kisser?” Brendon asked.

 

“You’re a fine kisser….”

 

“Then why?” Brendon demanded.  Gabe took a deep, steadying breath, and reminded himself for the millionth time that he was the adult, and it was his job to walk away.  He gave Brendon a gentle grin.

 

“You’ll be late for soundcheck, chiquito,” he said, brushing Brendon’s hands off of his hips and messing Brendon’s hair up a bit.  “Go on.”

 

Brendon gave him a dubious look but complied.  Gabe pushed open the door of the closet.  Brendon turned and went left down the hall, and Gabe went right.  He saw Ryland leaning there a few feet away with a smirk and an upturned eyebrow.  

 

“Don’t,” he said sternly, but Ryland didn’t give a shit.  He followed Gabe down the hall singing ‘k-i-s-s-i-n-g~.”

  


  1. **Dirty Dreams and Nicotine**



 

Gabe was not having a good morning.  

 

Waking up from a sex dream was always awkward.   Waking up from a sex dream while living in tin can with absolutely zero privacy was even more awkward.  Waking up from a sex dream, mid-orgasm, and immediately clamping his hand down over his mouth, because Gabe was loud during sex and God only knew the noises he made in his sleep, was by far the worst.

 

It was awkward to slip out of his bunk and make a sticky journey to the bathroom.  It was awkward to use the last piece of paper towel to clean off his junk with freezing cold water.  It was awkward to get changed and have to make eye contact with Ryland, who obviously was very aware of what had happened.  Gabe prayed a silent prayer of thanks for his latino complexion that did a lot to hide his blush.

 

The most awkward by far was the way the sex dream stuck in his head like a catchy song all day.  The moans, the images, and the feelings left him half hard and slightly out of it until they went on stage for their show that night and the adrenaline rush took over.  He was hoping to avoid the young musician all day.  Honestly, there was nothing more awkward than looking someone in the eye and having a conversation with them while still remembering how they looked/felt/tasted in your dirty dream the night before.

 

Lady luck was not on his side, unfortunately.  They parked for a break at a bus stop, and Gabe took the opportunity to steal Nate’s box of smokes and grab a fix while they fueled up.  He settled himself down in a patch of grass a ways away from the rest stop, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and blew a long breath of smoke out into the open sky.  

 

He wasn’t sure where they were.  Someplace colder than they’d been yesterday.  Someplace bright.  He flicked his sunglasses down over his eyes and took another drag; he didn’t turn to look when he heard footsteps approaching.

 

“Can I bum one?” a familiar voice asked.  Gabe handed the box over without a word.  They were Nate’s.  Gabe didn’t give a shit.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“De nada,” Gabe mumbled, and said nothing else.  He stared straight ahead and tried to ignore the curious eyes boring into his skull.

 

“You really don’t like me then?” Brendon asked out of nowhere.  “Ryan said you didn’t.  Said it would be best to leave you alone.  You don’t like me?”

 

“Of course I like you.  We’re friends, chiquito,” Gabe said, intentionally answering the question wrong because a conversation like this only highlighted the obvious age gap.  Do you _like_ me?  It was like he was in high school again, except that he wasn’t.  Brendon was.

 

Brendon frowned a bit and didn’t bother correcting Gabe.  “What’s chiquito mean?”

 

Gabe sighed. “Little one.”

 

Brendon scowled.  “I’m not that young…”

 

“Yeah.  You kind of are.  Would you prefer gordo?”

 

“What’s that one mean?”

 

“Look it up, chiquito.”

 

“So we’re not doing this then?” Brendon asked as Gabe stubbed his cigarette out against the asphalt and climbed to his feet.  There was a bite to his voice that made Gabe want to bite back, because he was fucking trying here and this kid wasn’t making it any easier.

 

“You’re a child,” he snapped, finally looking Brendon dead on and catching sight of the hurt in his eyes.  “Hit puberty, then we’ll talk.”  He turned and headed back to his bus.  So now he wasn’t only a pervert, he was also a jerk.  He only hoped that being mean to Brendon would finally get the kid to go away, because Gabe could keep on telling himself ‘no.’  It was just really hard.

  
  


  1. **Another Club**



 

Tour was over, and Pete really needed to stop sneaking under age bandmembers into clubs.  He was going to get himself arrested one of these days, and the tabloids would absolutely _love_ that.  Pete Wentz was apparently the hottest shit of 2005.  

 

That wasn’t Gabe’s problem though, or at least he was pretending it wasn’t.  He was pressed up close and dancing with a smoking hot girl.  She had soft hair, black rimmed eyes, and huge tits falling out of her dark purple v-neck shirt.  She thought it was hot that he was a musician.  He told her he’d been in two bands.  She said he must be amazing then.  

 

It was going to be drunken, stupid, filthy sex.  They’d go back to her place nearby and fuck, and he’d sneak out sometime around three a.m. after a short nap, with a ‘catch you later, xoxo’ note and his phone number left on the kitchen table.  

 

He had big plans.  The only bump in the road, it seemed, was that Gabe couldn’t let himself get into it.  The girl was awesome, don’t get him wrong.  Her body was amazing, and she was touching him everywhere in just the ways he liked.  He couldn’t stop himself, though, from glancing periodically across the small club, where he could clearly see Panic! at the Disco crowded into a small booth.  What were they even doing still hanging around?  Didn’t kids like them have families to get back to somewhere?  Tour had just ended, sure, but damn.  Gabe couldn’t catch a break.  

 

They were all sipping sodas and looking generally bored, obviously exhausted and over their honeymoon relationship with touring.  Brendon wasn’t sipping his drink or dozing off like the others.  He had his hands curled around a Redbull can and kept a furious little glare fixed on Gabe.  

 

All.  Night.  Long.

 

It was kind of a boner kill, which was ironic, because lately Brendon Urie was exactly the opposite.  That was the issue though.  Gabe was dancing with a beautiful girl and beating himself up over the fact that he’d rather be dancing with a beautiful _boy_.  One boy in particular.

 

Boy.  Seventeen.  God damn it.  

 

He hadn’t talked to Brendon since that parking lot conversation.  Brendon had tried, sure, but after getting brushed off more than a couple of times he seemed to get the hint and dedicated himself to giving Gabe the absolute silent treatment.  That was good.  That was what Gabe had wanted.  It just wasn’t working.

 

It was easier to keep his hands off of him when the kid wasn’t constantly underfoot, but it wasn’t any easier to keep his mind preoccupied.  What had started with a possible hook up in a club a few months ago was blossoming into something that Gabe didn’t even want to think about.  He didn’t just notice Brendon’s ass or his mouth anymore.  He noticed the kid’s smile, and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, or how he was bashful around strangers, or how he flirted with anyone holding a camera, or how he played with his hands when he was bored, or….

 

Obviously Gabe had a problem.  Victoria was calling it a crush, but Gabe was adamant that it was something less alarming, like an aneurysm or mild insanity.

 

She was right though.  Gabe was falling in love, and Brendon hated his guts.

 

Gabe politely excused himself after a while, the best he could over the deafening music.  His dance partner didn’t look too disappointed, and Gabe didn’t blame her.  There were plenty of hot young men there to keep her company.  Hot guys who would do a better job than Gabe had at paying attention to her.  

 

Gabe wandered the club for a while, looking for people he knew while simultaneously hiding from them.  He nearly ran into Pete, but then turned around and headed in the other direction.  He didn’t have the energy tonight.  He avoided Victoria and the ribbing she was sure to give him, and he wasn’t interested in hanging out with any of his guys, who were either falling over drunk or groping some poor club person’s ass.  

 

He found Panic!’s body guard, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name and had no idea how to talk to him.  The guy had this ‘real adult’ aura around him that made Gabe incredibly aware of how much of a poser he really was.  Also, Gabe didn’t want to look at the guy and think about how he wanted to fuck his underage band member.  Gabe had a feeling he wouldn’t be very forgiving if he knew.

 

Eventually, he grabbed himself a beer at the bar and a dark table in the corner and waited for everyone else to start dropping.  They would eventually, and then they’d need help stumbling back to their busses and into bed.  Gabe could be useful for a night.  

 

He sipped his beer and wished it was something stronger, and he tried not to stare at Brendon, who was shaking his ass with some other twink on the dance floor.  

  


**And then…**

 

Months went by, and Gabe got over it.  It was an easy feat to accomplish, given all the space he had and all the time he spent wandering around California.  The Cobras and him were busy writing, but not incredibly busy the way they would be in the studio a while from now.  A year or so, or maybe only a few months if Pete had his way.  

 

Gabe was feeding himself a steady diet of booze, pot, and vegetarian burritos, wasting his time wandering board walks and book stores, and wasting his nights dancing with randos at skeezy clubs.  

 

It wasn’t that he forgot the kid existed.  Much to the contrary.  He just figured that what had happened happened, and what would happen from there would happen, but not for a while.  The last thing he’d expected when he’d hit one of his favorite scenes early that May was for a hand to find it’s way circled around his wrist and a voice, ever so slightly deeper than he remembered, to say his name.  

 

Gabe turned and looked down to see a familiar pair of brown eyes looking up at him.  

 

The kid had gotten a hair cut, and the short spikes helped bring out his jaw line better than the bowl cut had.  He was wearing red glasses now, and maybe Gabe had hallucinated his voice having gotten deeper.  Maybe it was a trick of hearing from the club being so loud, but Gabe knew it was possible for his voice to still be dropping when Brendon was as young as he was.  

 

Gabe, being the educated, intelligent adult that he was, raised his eyebrows and couldn’t think of anything better to say than, “Oh… Brendon….”

 

Brendon didn’t look phased by that.  He tugged insistently at Gabe’s wrist, and Gabe allowed himself to be lead back a bit to a section of the club that was quiet enough for a shouted conversation.  

 

“You said to come back when I hit puberty,” Brendon said loudly, tilting his head at Gabe.  “Well I’m pretty sure I hit that years ago, but I’m eighteen now, so….”

 

“Eighteen?” Gabe asked him.

 

“Consenting age,” the kid responded.

 

“Like your song?”

 

Brendon gave a wide grin and nodded, but then it faded a little and shyness made him glance off to the side.  “Look… I know you don’t like me, and you think I’m just some stupid kid who won’t leave you alone, but Alex said I could find you here, and I just thought….”  

 

He trailed off and glanced up anxiously at Gabe, who still didn’t know how to respond.  He wasn’t sure what Brendon was offering up here, and he wasn’t sure what he was willing to let himself take.  What he was ready to take, even.  Whatever _this_ was, it had been a long time coming.  

 

Gabe decided to roll with it.  He curled his hand around Brendon’s shoulder and leaned in close enough to say, “Consenting age, sure, but you’re still not old enough to be here.”

 

Brendon looked disheartened for just a moment, but it quickly switched to a head tilt and confused expression when Gabe smiled at him.  

“Let me take you out for coffee, chiquito,” he said.  

  
Brendon smiled, a face splitting grin that lit up the room, and responded, “Well alright, but I don’t put out on the first date.”


End file.
